Mysterious Taylor! (A John Deacon fic)

Taylor's story and mind

John held Taylor's hand tightly, his face drenched with tears. She was resting on a white satin bed, her skinny and weak body shaking. Her eyes were wandering everywhere, looking for something that could reassure her. Her rosy cheeks were no more: they were now hollow and pale, and her once beautiful full lips were so thin and purple. Her gorgeous blonde mane, which she loved to comb in many elegant ways, had disappeared. She was almost bald, with only some short locks coming out of her skin. Her limbs were now only bones, with no more curves. Oh, how the disease made her lose her looks!

John did not realise how long she had been sick, with this terrible virus taking her away from him. She could barely speak, and the only noises she could make were only long, squeaky, horrible complains. She could not eat a thing, and the only thing that kept her alive was this catheter constantly planted in her arm. The pain was seizing her body, eating her away. She could not move, she could not stand up. If the wind could have blown over her, she would have flown away with it.

Taylor weakly pressed John's hand, letting out her bloodcurdling complain, as her empty eyes were staring at him. She tried to sit up, but she was not strong enough. John did not even try to help her, knowing that it would hurt her and make her die quicker. Instead, she abruptly grabbed the fabric of his collar and pulled her closer to her. She lightly craned her neck, and John felt her deadly breath on his ear.

“It will be sooner than you think” she squeaked.

John looked at her in disbelief. His eyes filled with terror, as her face was now only a skull. She screamed on top of her dying lungs, and disappeared suddenly. He felt something weighing in his hands. He lowered his eyes on it and saw her head. He gasped and stepped back, hearing the sound of something breaking, like a stick. He took a look at what it was and noticed that he was walking on bones, near which a stonegrave was resting on the grass. “Taylor Taylor, double name, doubly insane, dying”.

John woke up with a start. He was panting and sweating, his hand resting on his chest. He looked all around him to make sure that it was only a nightmare, and that he was back to reality. He glanced at the sheets next to him: Taylor was up already. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his demented heartbeats. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and stretched his back, trying to get rid of his nightmare.

He pushed the sheets out of his body and stood up, feeling a sudden coldness on his body. He frowned and looked down at it. He was naked. Then, the memories of the night before came back to him, like the sweet caress of a velvet glove. His lips stretched into a wide grin, as he remembered the taste of Taylor's lips, this of her neck, and this of her whole body. It was like a gift she had given him, and it was the most precious one he ever got. He cherished the memories of the tender looks she gave him, the way she kissed him, and the way she said his name. Even during the “thing”, she kept calling him “John Deacon”, though she said that she called people by their first name if they got intimate. After that, were they still strangers?

John grabbed his towel, which he had put on his suitcase, and wrapped it around his hips. He turned to the window and saw a lonesome figure standing on the ramparts, its back turned to the window. John immediately recognised Taylor, wrapped up in a blue coat, her arms crossed. She had combed her hair in a simple 40s hairstyle, wearing a blue dress.

John threw the towel on the floor and slipped on clean boxers, his jeans, a clean t-shirt, and white socks. After that, he ran up to the entrance and took his shoes, which he put on, and wrapped himself in is black jacket, slipping his hands in the pockets. He felt a thick folded paper in it and took it out: it was the envelope with the two ferry tickets to go back to England. He shrugged and put them back into the pocket, so he would be sure not to lose them. He grabbed the keys and stormed off the flat, locking the door.